Two if by Plane
by stillgotleggs
Summary: Sherlock is bored waiting for John to get home from work when two Americans come sniffing by, looking for information on a past foe. Please review or shoot me ideas.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One- Two if by Plane

Sherlock drummed his fingers along the banister with practiced impatience. He felt ridiculous, childish, sitting here waiting like this. So this is what he had become. It was extremely inconvenient to have an..._attachment._ Even the word was irritating. Three and a half years ago he had selected someone who appeared to have been tolerable to share a flat with him, and now here he was. Sitting at the top of the stairs waiting to hear John's cab arrive, like some domesticated animal. The doctor had turned out to be far more than tolerable; he was now a necessity. As a graduate chemist Sherlock was quite familiar with the chain of hormones that produced feelings like infatuation in the human mind, and he had always felt a need to distance himself from such petty drunkenness. He had never experienced anything more than a biological love for his family, something that was a product of shared genes and extended time spent together. Now what he felt was much more. He hadn't expected it to feel so horrible. Yet not undesirable.

_Stupid, stupid. You sound like one of them. You sound so terribly mundane Brother Dear._Sherlock waved his brothers' voice away in annoyance. Just like Mycroft to interrupt him when he was contemplating his most complex emotions. Even as a mental recreation he couldn't keep that nose out of Sherlock's business.

Outside the sound of a cab pulling up caught his attention, but he dismissed it when the passenger stepped out. Not John, obviously. _Damn this waiting,_Sherlock thought as he rose from his seated position on the top step. He was grown man, a genius. He should find something else to do, something that didn't involve thinking about John, who was distracting him even all the way from Bart's.

He paced the flat's living room, as much in anticipation for John as boredom. He needed a case. Well, that wasn't really true. As usual there was a long line of people waiting for replies to desperate emails, and as usual Sherlock had found none of them entertaining enough to bother. Some he had solved before he had finished reading them and still hadn't let the sender's know. His phone buzzed, and hope for a case rose like the tide. The tide receded when he saw the number.

"Mycroft."

"Hello, Brother Dear. I wonder if wouldn't mind dropping by my office, I have some very nice gentlemen here who would like to talk to you about something rather important." Sherlock pouted. This sounded like another political case, and frankly, he'd had no interest in those since the Woman.

"Mycroft, why do you insist on asking questions you already know the answers to?"

"How right you are Sherlock. I of course assumed you'd refuse, so I took the liberty of sending said gentleman to 221B. Put the kettle on and play nice, will you?"

"I won't take the case Mycroft. We've discussed on multiple occasions my aversions to anything high on your priorities list. These things always end up as more work than they're worth." He sighed like a tired parent.

"It's to do with Jim Moriarty." This elicited a millisecond of silence from Sherlock, which Mycroft rejoiced in on the other end line. Such silences were rare, and needed to be embraced.

"When did you send them?"

"They should be there momentarily. And they're Americans, so try not to use any big words or move to quickly; you might startle them. And for heaven's sake, don't make them shoot you. "Then he was gone, no doubt off to harass some diplomatic official or smoke with the Queen.

Sherlock turned his mind on. He had been in a state of complacency, still observing but not constructing. Now he was on high alert. _Moriarty. The consulting criminal_. He was dead. Of course he was. Sherlock didn't doubt himself, and certainly not the bullet he had seen go through the other man's head. But he had threatened John, drove Sherlock underground, and now the name was back to torment him. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson was letting men in. Two by the sound of it, and large. The detective took a seat in his armchair and crossed his long legs, feeling very much like a villain in a Vincent Price movie. Heavy footsteps up the stairs, and then they appeared in the doorway. Sherlock's mind went to work, and as the two men pulled out their badges he put them together in his head. What he found confused him.

Both men were in their late twenties and early thirties, and had all the tell tale signs of military service. Muscular builds the drawn faces of men who have seen and given out much death. On the other hand the lacked the order of soldiers. They both wore cheap suits and carried well concealed weapons. The taller one, the younger one, had shoulder length hair and a five o'clock shadow. The shorter one, the older one, seemed to be an alcoholic overcoming violent jet lag. They presented well made fake credentials that named them as Agents Stark and Banner.

"Mr. Holmes we'd like to ask you a few questions about James Moriarty."

"You don't have a case for me, do you?" This was an odd position for him- answering and interview rather than giving one.

"No. Just a few questions and then we'll be out of your hair."

"You're obviously not federal agents, and you're Americans so wouldn't have had much to with him in the criminal world. So you're after him for something else. You both have all the signs of prolonged exposure to war yet exhibit none of the tendencies of a veteran soldier. I should know, I live with one. Which leads me to wonder what you're really after? It is so very far to travel when a simple phone call would have done. "

The two men exchanged glances, the younger one looked annoyed and the older one looked tired. Now that he really looked, Sherlock was begging to suspect the two were brothers, judging by the way they moved around each other and their almost tangible codependency.

"I fold. Give him the birds and bees, Sammy. Better this way anyway." The taller one nodded and sat down in John's chair, which annoyed Sherlock to no end.

"My name is Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean. We… hunt monsters."

"You don't seem to be speaking metaphorically." Dean snorted from the other side of the room where he was poking a glass Sherlock had filled coagulated blood for a case two days ago. He really needed to clean that out before John found it again.

"We're not. We think that the Jim Moriarty you dealt with two years ago was the same one that we've heard some...demons talking about, and we need to know what you knew about him." Sherlock turned his head back to Sam Winchester.

"Why?"

"All poetry aside, Jim Moriarty may have been a demon, and we need to know where he is so we can gank him."

"Gank him?"

"Kill him. Look I know this sounds-"

"No, no, no. I have an incredibly open mind. And if there is anyone walking this Earth who could be a demon, it's Jim Moriarty. "

"So you'll answer some questions?"

"I suppose. If in turn you answer one of mine for every one of yours." Sam Winchester didn't look thrilled with this request, but he seemed too tired to put up a fight. No doubt he would fabricate most of his answers anyway. Dean was flipping through a photo album of murder scene photos, looking at sometimes repulsed and at others impressed.

"Okay. So, did Moriarty ever make any Biblical references? Apocalypse, angels, that sort of thing?"

"He said to me these exact words, 'You're on the side of the angels.' And a few moments later he put a bullet in his head."

Dean joined his brother on the sofa and it creaked under the weight of the large Americans. "Did he mention specific angels? Or how about a douche named Crowley? He's British- maybe they had tea together." Sam ignored his brother and plowed on.

"If he didn't mention the Bible, did he ever talk about anything supernatural?"

"It's my turn for a question I think, if you would be so kind."

Sam conceded. "Shoot."

"We've already established that you're far from federal agents- and you certainly believe you're 'hunters.' I will grant you any information you want information of James Moriarty that you ask, and that's very generous of me, if you enlighten me on your world."

Dean snorted. "You wanna hunt? No offense buddy, but you're more Hannibal than Rambo."

"I haven't the slightest interest in…hunting. But as I've always said, one the key tenants of deducing is information. It has become very apparent to me that I may be lacking key components to solve cases."

Sam sighed. "Look, you help us find him, and we'll tell you whatever the hell you want."

Sherlock stood up, filled with excitement. He was standing on the precipice of new opportunities, he could feel it. If they were nothing more than mad men, at least he had something to entertain him for a while. If they were right- imagine the possibilities.

"Well then gentlemen, the games afoot."


	2. Chapter 2

Two if by Plane Chapter 2:

A Plot Emerges

Sherlock had neither dismissed nor embraced the paranormal before he was approached by the Winchesters. He had experienced several cases where for a time it seemed the only answer could be one of supernatural origins, and some of them with John. The Hound of Baskerville was notable. There had been a brief time, perhaps no more than twenty seconds, when Sherlock had actually believed in the Hellhound. Of course he quickly dismissed it, and later chocked it up to the narcotics involved in the case, but nonetheless he had been open to the idea. Something in the way these men walked his flat, like they had seen Hell itself, made him sure that they were being honest. And as a detective it was his duty to follow all leads and consider all possibilities. It was also his duty to follow through all cases to the end, and so if Moriarty had faked his death and was still about, Sherlock was determined to put an end to it. The fact that Moriarty was the spawn of Satan only made him more eager to end him.

When the Winchesters had left the evening before they had seemed disappointed, and rightly so. Sherlock had no information that could possibly lead to James, only his cryptic words and the few moments that they had actually been together. Unsure of where to go from there, Sherlock had begun a crusade to learn everything possible about the supernatural world. The brothers had agreed to fill him in on the basics, and they had. They gave some general monsters and how to dispose of them, dismissed legend and corroborated fact. As soon as they had departed that evening after a visit that had lasted hours, Sherlock had brought out his laptop and begun a massive internet search for more information, using his best inferences to separate fact from fiction. It had required him to clean out much of his mind palace to make room for the new facts, but he had plenty of useless info to shed anyway. John had come home that night to find him searching the origins of demons, and had been politely interested and then gone to bed. Sherlock told him nothing of his new case; this was something to be done on his own.

Another day of research and intense brainstorming had brought him no closer to getting a lead on Moriarty, and he decided that in this instance he was going to need to defer to the Winchesters. They wouldn't like it- no doubt they would want to handle this on their own and keep him on the sidelines, but Sherlock had a powerful brother and an even more powerful mind at his disposal. He watched John make his breakfast with methodical precision as he speed dialed the elder Holmes.

"Sherlock, I am extremely busy right now. What do you want?"  
"I need contact information for the two men you sent here-and quickly this is time sensitive."His brother sighed and leaned into the receiver. "They didn't leave me any contact information. At least none that checked out."  
"Oh please, Mycroft. We both know you got their biographies the moment the left your office. A room number for the hotel their staying out will do."  
"What did they want to know about the Spider?"  
"That's need to know, Brother Dear. Now, the number."  
"Fine."  
Halfway across London the phone in Winchester hotel room began to ring.

Dean reached over his bed lazily to grab the receiver without taking his eyes off the TV. BBC had been playing Star Trek all day, and it was the first thing Dean had actually enjoyed about being overseas.

"Yeah?" His brow furrowed when he heard the deep baritone of the detective on the other end of the line. 'How'd you get this number?" Sam looked up from his laptop with a puzzled look. _Sherlock_, Dean mouthed at him.

"I'm a detective, Dean. A phone number is hardly a monumental endeavor."

"Okay...Well, what do you want? You think of something that'll help us ice your little buddy?"

"You mentioned a name, Crowley. This is another demon?"

"Not just a demon, King of Hell. Son of a bitch has total jurisdiction with the thunder down under." On the TV Captain Piccard was struggling to bring down an enemy Klingon.

"My research, and your briefing, has lead me to understand that a demon can be summoned? And trapped?"

"You want to summon Crowley?" Sam gave Dean a _whatever this is shut it down before it turns into a mess_ look.

"The process seems fairly simple, and I have at my disposable what I should hope to be able to consider experts."

"Look man, we appreciate your help and everything, but this isn't really-"

"I'm standing outside your hotel room."

"_What?_ Dude you can't just track people down like that- it's creepy."

"Are you going to open the door or shall I break it down?"

"Damn it. Hold on." Dean hung up and rubbed his eyes. He had sudden and violent longing for his good old American motel rooms, complete with honor bars and no creepy ass detectives skulking around outside. Sam tilted his head back and sighed, his eyes closed in exasperation.

"He's right outside, isn't he?"

"Yup. Dude's like the friggin NSA. Well, let him in I guess."

Five minutes later the three men sat together at the small table in the corner of the room, Sherlock looking with bored curiosity at the brother's belongings, trying to piece more of them together. Sam broker the tense silence first.

"So, you want to talk about Crowley?"

"Yes, I intend to get information from him. If he is the King of Hell, he should have some idea of where one of his more notable subjects lays in waiting."

Dean shook his head. "Crowley isn't gonna talk. We can get him here, sure, but he won't give us jack. And if he did, I would trust it less than I trust diner Jell-O. And that's not much."

"All the same, it seems the only step to be taken." Sherlock drew himself up in his seat, nearly reaching the height of Sam Winchester. How obnoxious. It wasn't often that he was shorter than someone. "I can tell the two you of you are, well to put it bluntly, you're codependent on each other to a fault. So introducing a new player to your goings on is difficult for you, but I assure you, I am the very best."

"Maybe with human stuff," Sam said gently. "But these guys play by completely different rules. And we can't guarantee your safety."

"If you don't do it with me, I'll do it alone, and who knows what could happen."

Dean snorted. "Best argument I heard all day. I say we do it."

"Dean, no."

"Come on Sam. What the hell else are we gonna do in this town? Cause I'm telling you now, I can't watch anymore of that Eurovision."

Sherlock led the brothers to an abandoned lot on the outskirts of town, which just so happened to sit near the chocolate factory where the he had found two children Moriarty had kidnapped just days before The Fall. He had watched silently as the two American's quickly but carefully drew what they called a demon trap on the ground with red spray paint. Sherlock logged the image away for use later.

"You ready?' Sam asked seriously.

"Profoundly."

"Stand back, and just- just let us do our thing. And don't get in the circle. Got it?"

"Perfectly." The brothers enacted a ritual that Sherlock had read about on the web, with a few variations. He took mental notes of these and waited tensely for the demon to emerge.

"Hello boys." He was short, dressed in a suit (much like Moriarty always was) and smiled exactly the way a demon should. He sent a chill down Sherlock's spine, and the detective cursed himself for acting like a frightened milk maid.

"What are you doing in my homeland gentleman?"

Dean took charge of the interrogation. "Stow it, Crowley. We need some information, and you're gonna be a pal and help us out."

"If this is about that demon strip club down in Rio, I swear I was barely involved. But I couldn't find it in my heart to shut the place down."

"It's about one of your high rankers. Moriarty. He blew his face off on the top of Barts a couple of years ago, and we want to know where he is now." Crowley kicked at the dirt and shrugged innocently.

"Haven't seen him in, oh, two centuries? Lad loved a good wine though, and had good taste in suits. You find him, tell him to ring me."

"Listen Prime Sinister, you're not gettin out of that demon trap until you give us some intel."

"Tell you what- because I like you, and the looks of your mysterious pimp skulking over there, I'll throw you some scraps."

"Let's hear it."

"I haven't seen Jim in years, that's true. And his real name is Astaroth, if you want to be technical. I don't know where he is- but I do know his kinks."

"You mean like bedroom kinks?"

The King rolled his eyes dramatically. "Everything isn't about the bedroom, Squirrel. I mean what he looks for in a good time. He likes people like Tall Dark and Stormy over there, the smart ones. He plays with them, and then disappears. Who do you think convinced Einstein to invent the atomic bomb? And then left him with the guilt of the deaths of thousands? Good old Asty."

"How does that help us find him?"

"Why don't you call Castiel and see what he knows about a Peter Harad? That's the best I can give you."

Sam shook his head in confusion. "You're saying that Moriarty likes to mess with the really smart people, and this Harad guy is his next play?"

"That's all I've got boys. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a Pit to run and souls to devour. Not to mention tickets to the Met." Dean stared Crowley down a moment and then gave Sam a nod, and the younger brother scratched a patch of paint out of the demon trap.

"Check you later, Moose."

Suddenly it was only the three of them again. Just as Sherlock was recovering from his meeting with the King of Hell, a voice came from the darkness behind him. It was dark and low and gentle.

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas, you're just in time. What can you tell us about Peter Harad?"

Sherlock fingered the cigarettes in his pocket. This was going to be a long night.


End file.
